


Firehose

by lily rose (annabeth)



Series: piss!verse 2.0 [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Desperate Dean Winchester, Desperation, Desperation Play, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Incest, Incest Kink, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, Watersports, Weecest, Wetting, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24793033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: But now that the shoe is on the other foot, Sam isn't sure what he wants to do. They've been talking about pissing on each other, but… there's something else he wants to do first.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: piss!verse 2.0 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Firehose

"So how do you wanna do this?" Dean asks, after they've paid for the room and settled into it. At least, sort of, since Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed and Dean is still standing, shifting from foot to foot. They're supposed to be hunting, but it's late, too dark for reconnaissance and too late for interviews, so they might as well get up to mischief while they wait for morning.

But now that the shoe is on the other foot, Sam isn't sure what he wants to do. They've been talking about pissing on each other, but… there's something else he wants to do first.

"Dean," Sam says, pulling a t-shirt out of his duffle and laying it on the bed—they have a double room, one bed for each of them, though Sam suspects they'll still end up sharing. It's too suspicious to get a room with only one bed, since they're both guys, but that doesn't mean they have to _use_ the second one. Sam also unrolls a pair of boxer briefs. "Do you want to shower together or separately?" he asks, motioning to the bathroom.

Dean gives a quick glance over there and bounces on the balls of his feet.

"You wanna— In the shower? Sammy?" Dean is obviously longing for some relief, but Sam has half a mind not to allow it—at least not for awhile yet. He drops his duffle to the floor with a thud and crosses to Dean, crowding him up against the wall and bracing one hand against it by Dean's head. Then he very deliberately steps in closer, till he's flattened his body up against Dean's. Then, slowly, he insinuates his thigh between Dean's, splaying his legs farther apart—Dean is already adorably bowlegged—and allows himself to swim in the depths of those green eyes.

It isn't like he hadn't known what color Dean's eyes were. Obviously, since they're brothers, and they spend roughly all their time together, he knows that Dean's eyes are green. The difference between knowing that and looking at them now is being allowed to _notice_. Before, Sam might have stolen peeks, might have wished he could gaze into them long and hard, like he's doing now, but he couldn't risk it.

Now, Sam is allowed to jump in, to splash around, to feel his way to Dean's soul by the gateway of his green, green eyes—a beautiful soft green like rain-soaked grass, and Sam is suddenly aware that Dean's wriggling against him, clearly in some discomfort, and Sam is daydreaming. He pulls himself back from the clouds and slides his leg a little bit up, then a little bit down, until Dean is rubbing shamelessly against his thigh.

"I don't think we will," Sam says, answering Dean's question. "Not in the shower. Not this time. Tell me, Dean," he places his mouth right next to Dean's ear, "how badly do you have to go?"

Dean moans a little and his hips start, and Sam grins, licking the shell of Dean's ear until Dean repeats that little noise and movement. It feels good to have Dean rub against him, even if their cocks aren't touching. Sam's hard enough, though; he knows Dean can feel it digging into his belly, and all at once Sam wants to _see_ Dean, to touch acres of bare skin and know it all belongs to _him_.

"Bad," Dean pants, obviously torn between arousal and desperation. Sam aims to take both of those feelings higher, to put Dean in such a state he won't care what happens. Sam will ask him, before it happens, if he wants to let go—any minute now—but he's not going to stop unless Dean says so.

He takes the hem of Dean's shirt in both hands and lifts up, and whips it over Dean's head with his brother's help. Then his hands are all over that beautiful, whipcord flesh, mapping muscle and bone, and he can practically feel the blood beating in Dean's ears— _their_ blood, blood brothers. Sam feels his own hips cant a little, and he strains against his own control, to keep from getting too hard to follow through, to keep from bellowing his own sensations into the empty, silent—but for their exhalations—room.

"On a scale of one to ten," Sam breathes into his ear, "with one being, not at all, and ten being, you've just wet yourself, _how bad_?" He blows against Dean's ear, underscoring the urgency of his question—and hopefully getting an answer to give him some idea of the urgency of Dean's need.

"N-nine, Sammy, please," Dean whimpers, hips stuttering in little circles, though Sam doesn't think that's from arousal so much as the desperation. And Dean may be desperate, but he's not shoving Sam away or telling him to stop, so Sam takes it as his cue to continue.

"Dean." Sam moves his lips a little so he's not literally breathing down Dean's neck anymore. "If you need me to stop, if at any point you're uncomfortable, say 'Impala,' okay? And not Baby, because that's also a term of endearment."

Dean laughs a little at that. "I'm not gonna call you baby, Sammy. I might use it on girls, but you're too important for that." Then his voice hitches and he goes completely tense and still for a long moment, before slumping against Sam. "Almost lost it there, Sam."

Sam closes his teeth very gently on Dean's earlobe, and sucks slowly. Dean grinds up against him, cock semi-aroused and getting harder against Sam's thigh, and Sam scrapes his teeth against his ear, then down, to just under his jaw. Dean's bristles are raspy against his lips, and Sam has never felt anything so glorious: the bone-deep satisfaction of knowing his lover is male. And not just that, but _Dean_.

"If you're about to piss yourself, Dean, and you need to stop and run for the bathroom, use your safe word." Sam leaves off mouthing and sucking at Dean's neck and faces him, framing Dean's cheeks with his two hands—and when did they get so big? They almost dwarf Dean's face—and then ever-so-carefully touches their lips together. Dean sighs, relaxing a little, and mumbles against Sam's mouth,

"Is this what you want? To see me lose all control?" Dean's voice is breathless, his pupils blown when Sam lifts his head away a little to look. Dean has a _look_ about him, something that can't be put into words but that brings to Sam's mind arousal mixed with… tenderness? And even something else. Dean is not telling him no; on a sudden inhale, Sam realizes Dean will _never_ tell him no. He wants to gloat, and he wants to shake Dean and tell his brother not to just do whatever Sam tells him, but they both know Sam won't abuse that trust.

" _Yes_ ," Sam says, feeling his cock swell even more. "Yes, Dean, yes. Will you let me see it, feel it?" He jams his thigh up against Dean's own rigid arousal, and Dean shimmies a little against him, a shake of his body that seems involuntary as he both tries to feel all of the sexual pleasure from the movement and also keep from pissing himself in the process.

"Sammy, you'll get—I won't be able to stop soon," Dean pants. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Sam says, _except maybe of how much you love me_. He won't say those last words out loud, not because they're somehow too _manly_ for that, but because they don't need to be said. Both Dean and Sam know how they feel about each other now, and nothing can't shake that knowledge.

"Then yes, Sammy. I will." Dean sounds just as sure, and Sam feels gratified—and humbled by Dean's willingness to participate, to indulge Sam.

"How bad, Dean," Sam says, kissing him lingeringly, tracing the soft lushness of his lips with his tongue, casing the inside of his mouth, from the smooth walls of his cheek to the uneven enamel of his teeth.

When he pulls back, lets Dean fall out of the enthralled spell he put him in, Dean's heart is kicking so hard in his chest Sam can feel it echo in his own. Dean's body has gone slack, except for the jut of his erection, which is still steady, strong, and throbbing hard, and the way his muscles clench every so often with an effort to hold on _just a little bit longer._

"Nine-and-a-half, Sammy. You better be ready." Dean's not teasing about this; his voice is deadly serious, but at the same time Sam knows he's not angry or dismayed—just prepared for the eventuality. Sam is practically gasping at how badly he wants this, wants Dean to slip his leash and piss himself—piss _Sam_ —until they both lose all command of their wits.

Sam nudges his thigh against Dean, then slips a hand in between them, finds the hard lump of Dean's bladder low in his belly. At first, as he skims a hand up his chest and then down, stealing inside the waistband of his jeans, he simply caresses the swell gently, lovingly.

"Sammy, _please_ ," Dean says, but Sam doesn't know if he's begging Sam to stop—or urging him on. "I'm so close, Sam, you gotta stop if—"

"Not yet, Dean," Sam says, latching onto his earlobe again. Right against his ear, so Dean can't possibly mistake him, with his hand still stroking over Dean's lower belly, he says, "you have to hold on. You can't go—not yet, anyway."

Dean moans, hips thrusting, body trembling with how difficult it must be to hang on that last little bit necessary to keep from pissing himself before Sam says he can. Sam spreads a line of kisses from just beneath his ear, along his jaw, and then down, till he's nibbling at the join of his neck and shoulder. Dean grabs Sam's face with both hands, pulling him up and in, so that their mouths clash, teeth clacking, the kiss brutal and furious, but with heat and passion, not anger.

Dean is kissing Sam like he's drowning, the last breath of fresh air he'll get before he goes under—the distraction he needs from the pressure building and building in his bladder. Sam knows what that feels like: the powerful urge to stop trying so hard, to stop being good, to just… _let go_.

And Dean's almost at ten, Sam can tell. No matter what he tells Dean, pretty soon Dean's body is going to give up with or without his say-so, and Sam wants Dean to feel like he has some control, even in an absolute loss of it—so he stills his hand.

Dean's hands travel away from Sam's face, frantic in his perusal of Sam's body, a physical examination that can't be rushed and yet _is_ , and Sam presses once, very firmly, down onto Dean's lower abdomen. Dean breaks away from the kiss, lips wide and swollen, and his body jerks a little.

"Okay, Dean," Sam whispers against those gorgeous, back-alley lips. "It's okay now, I've got you."

It's not a delicate little loss of control, though, a spurt and some hesitancy. No. Not for Dean. His brother has been holding it for so long, and he's been so good about meeting Sam's demands, but he's got permission now, and he can't hang on any longer for any reason: it's not gentle, or sweet, it's a fucking _deluge_ , all at once.

They're both soaked in seconds, Dean's bladder spasming against Sam's hand—his very _wet_ hand—and yet the flood continues, drenching Sam's jeans from where he's pressed to Dean, their bodies so close there's no room for the Holy Spirit—Sam heard that at a school dance once, what seems like long, long ago—and his cock is twitching, aching painfully, the drumbeat of his heart in his flesh. He's… fuck, he's going to _come_.

Sam lets go of Dean, yanks his hand out of Dean's jeans, and quickly unbuckles and undoes his own, followed by undoing Dean's, and pulling Dean's cock free to rub against his. Dean is still pissing even as he does this, and the spray is so strong from holding it so long that droplets splash Sam's chin. He thinks Dean would apologize—of course he would, he wouldn't want to do anything Sam might hate—but Dean's head is against the wall, neck arched, body arched, his entire being both tense and yet, down below, he's relaxing more and more as he finds relief.

Sam fists their cocks together and Dean lets out a heavy sigh, and his body slackens, the stream tapering off, finally. It's been a good three or four minutes; Dean was not going to be able to keep it in much longer, no matter what Sam had said—though he knows Dean is glad to have waited for permission.

Sam's shoes are full of piss and the carpet is squishing beneath his soles. He can feel Dean's whole body loosen, then go taut as his orgasm draws near. Sam, still fisting their cocks up and down together, reaches with his other hand behind Dean's dick, to find his balls.

He cups them, rolls them a little in his palm, and watches Dean's face—lax with utter abandon, and visible, thorough relief—as Dean's balls tighten against his hand. He knows Dean's close—and Sam can't stave it off any longer, not for either of them. He bites Dean's shoulder even as he flies apart, blood simmering rich and hot in his cock and then flowing outward in a firework of pleasure.

Dean's cock jerks against his hand, and now he's painting them both with a different fluid, one that mixes with Sam's, and gobs and spatters of come are covering them both. Wherever there might have been a centimeter dry from piss, now it's wet and coated with jizz—and Sam has never felt like this. No orgasm has ever been so strong, taken so much out of him, and yet left him feeling this rejuvenated.

He's got the sense Dean disagrees. As soon as Sam steps back, Dean slumps to his ass on the carpet, his jeans wrecked with come and piss, and now he's sitting in a literal puddle.

"God, Sammy, _God_ ," he says. "You don't do anything by half measures."

Sam sits down next to him; the piss is still warm.

"Do you regret that?" he asks, meaning his tendency to give one hundred percent to any undertaking or emotion, but Dean, leaning his head on Sam's shoulder, huffs a laugh.

"I couldn't regret that if I tried," he says. "But we made a mess."

"But we never let the maids in," Sam points out, "and we gave them a false name and credit card info. We'll be gone before anyone finds out."

"Some poor dude is gonna get a bill for damages because of us," Dean says lazily, hand sifting through Sam's hair at the side of his head.

"It's not any worse than charging him for the room," Sam says, and they both fall silent, their breathing loud between them.

The piss is cooling, and they're surrounded by the sharp, pungent scent of it. Dean held it so long he must have pissed buckets—at least, that's what it feels like.

"Shower, Sammy, as soon as I can move. And then we have to rinse out our clothes. Then go to bed." _Together_ , goes unspoken.

But Sam knows that he'll fall asleep to the cadence of Dean's breathing, and the sweet last pulses of his orgasm—not physically, but the emotional well-being thereof.

Sam is content to sit for a few minutes longer, and Dean, for his part, cuddles up.

END


End file.
